


prayer beds

by asiren (meliorismo)



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Canon Compliant, Domestic Violence, M/M, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 00:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11680530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meliorismo/pseuds/asiren
Summary: suspended underwater, adam and ronan try to draw the line between surviving and running.





	prayer beds

**Author's Note:**

> tw: domestic violence. if this is your tw, love urself girl close the tab
> 
> i wrote this nearly a year and a half ago, for a challenge (delipa10) where my "prompt" was cobra (snake). i had just ended the raven cycle series and wrote this, originally in portuguese. now, 2017, the english translation sees the light. every mistake is mine, because i didn't ask anyone to proof-read this hahah sorry in advance.

**prayer beds**

 

The doctor said some day I might not be able to walk

It's in my blood like the iron

My mother is as tough as nails, she held herself together

The day she could no longer hold my niece she said

_"Our kneecaps are our prayer beds_

_Everyone can walk farther on their kneecaps than they can on their feet"_

— andrea gibson.

 

You think that maybe this is the result of being unwanted and terrified all your life — the deeper you love something, harder you want to make it burn.

(start again, open parenthesis: Ronan. 1) speaks latin. 2) most infamous Lynch brother (obvious reasons). 3. hates having to explain himself (draw an arrow: you too). 4. 1/5 of ronan-gansey-blue-noah- _adam_. 5. like crows. 6. loves you.

close parenthesis).

When you think about Ronan's personality (which is a lot), you always imagine a peaceful snake, sleeping under the sun. Nothing hiding on the bust — that would be too easy. Ronan, in your mind, is the brightest kind of coral, the kind who waits for you laying on a rock. The kind who says to you _, if I bite you, it's your own damn fault. I want you to know_ , the snake would say, _that all of this only is happening because you're stupid._ I warned you, it is what every single line of his tattoo says, kind of softly, to you — move with caution.

Of course, you saw the lines and you still went. You heard the warning and you still went closer, closer, closer, believing that, with you, things would be different — how could Ronan hurt you? Of him, you didn't expect almost nothing (key word: _almost_ ). Then, you went. Close enough to love him. Close enough to start wishing he would burn.

—

1) summer

2) before blue

3) sun sun sun sun

You are lying on Ronan's floor, staring at the bed where he is pretending to sleep. The scene is common, mundane; boring, even. You don't care.

You know that Ronan keeps coming to you because you don't live on the belief that you have to make him nicer, gentler, better; not like Gansey does. He comes to you because you don't try to fit in the Niall Lynch-shaped hole. Comes to you because you let him keep his secrets and he lets you keep yours.

He comes to you, and that's it.

You don't love him, not yet.

(but you could)

—

The bruise on your cheek sang a hate song. You don't blame Gansey for being unable to— look at it, because when the bruise is on your face like this you hide all the mirrors that you can find. Because of that, because you can't stomach your own pain, how could you ask your friends to do it for you? You're _evil_ and the sooner everyone realize this the better.

(ronan can't stop himself, he is staring at your neon-purple injure for five minutes now. All you have in your body urges you to confrontation, " _take a picture, it will last longer_ "; to yell at him, maybe, _take care of your own life how can you judge me who do you think you_ are—

of course, you don't say a word. not even one,

because it is useless, he never listens to you,

and you won't waste your voice for nothing,

but you also won't low your eyes, oh, no,

you won't feel ashamed in front of _ronan lynch_ of all people,

for something who isn't even your fault, he can go fuck himself,

and because he doesn't say _you deserved it_

— no? no —

he says _do you want some ice for this_?)

(and the true answer is _yes_. the true answer is _please please_ please—)

(but the one you give to him is _this what_?)

—

At the beginning, you indulge Ronan's affection because it sounds so much like a summer song, something that won't — couldn't — last; you think: _why not? (what could possibly go wrong_?) It interests you, the attention of this rich kid who can dream the world to its death build on nothing at all, but that choses instead bring to life nice, bright-eyed kids with good heart and lotion for your hands (with the exclusive additional of messages in latin). You indulge it because Ronan is Ronan and you are _you_ and his interest is bound to die as soon as the physical presence of Adam in his life go away; as fast as it came. You had to enjoy it while it last, clearly. Those were the lines of this implicit contract between the two of you — crystal clear.

(drawn an arrow, underline it: you were wrong.

— but this isn't an issue, just a stab in your ego (of these you have a lot) and something that can be handle with soon; you're _Adam Parrish_ which means that you won't tolerate mistakes or defeat, so plan B it is: ignore and run. If everything goes to hell, plan C: confrontation.

you really hate plan C).

—

A parenthesis about instinct:

When you were just a child, you decided that you loved your mother. She was so very pretty, siting close to the window as if waiting for someone to came (fun fact: se was, actually, praying that your father died on the street. You didn't understand this at the time); even her sadness tasted idyllic. An animated doll, the marble statue who became alive every time to give you a kiss on your forehead and say _good night, pumpkin_ (it used to happen, every day like a clock, until your eight years old. after that 1) her spirit died for good — there's a limit of violence someone can take till they just give up (and hers was a lot longer than some other people on the same situation) 2) she gave up on you. taking care of your pains just to see others and others and others painting the same place of black, purple, blue; it hurts a lot — maybe too much. so, the obvious solution was to give up of caring at once, right? (you don't know if she hoped to be forgiven of this. you pray to the answer be no, because you don't know if you have it on you to forgive her for abandoning you. orphan of a living mother. and it makes you sad, really, thinking of your mom waiting for a forgiveness that will never come. 3) you father decided that real men aren't kissed by their mothers —  even if they're only eight). Anyway. You decided that you loved your mother, because she was pretty, because she kissed you every night, because she used to say _i love you_ , because she would hold you on her arms and call you _my darling_.

And the love did go on — at least until the day the hurt of the bruises lasted longer than her kisses on your forehead. At least until her smiles to you — the one that said _i'm so sorry_ , even if it wasn't her fault; the one that she would give only because it would make you feel someway better — became rarer and rarer and rarer than your father's punches. Lasted until the day she abandoned you and burned you with fire made of her indifference, without moving a finger to save you. Without even lowing her eyes.

It wasn't her fault and you knew it — she was bruised, like you, and hurting, like you —, but you hated her all the same. Hated her so much you thought you would die. You hated her even more, you think, because of the weight of her betrayal — your father was a monster and you knew it since birth, and from him you waited for pain and humiliation, but your mother — your lovely, lovely mother — used to tell you stories and hold you on her arms and call you _my darling_ and what she did was stab you on the back and you would — couldn't — never, ever forget—

You learned your lesson, oh, yeah. And you sang it to yourself every day, like the smart boy you are.

Love is fragile, worse than glass. A single movement too blunt and it is in pieces laying on the floor, and the remains always bury themselves in the skin of the ones who didn't seen it coming — the only solution is you, with your own two hands, take it and smash against the wall, right? If it has to die — and it do — then at least you will make it painless.

(no one should ever, ever love you;

unfortunately, ronan lynch didn't get the memo).

—

For a blessed, still second, everything is quiet — you almost think _this was a nightmare thank god—_

(ronan is catholic. he would say things like that — _thank god_ — and mean it. or at least would in some other life where niall lynch is alive and breathing and _god bless)_

And then the yelling comes back full force — everyone over each other, four voices screaming for your attention;

(think catalogue organize)

1) I WAS DEFENDING HIM, YOU FUCKING MORONS, AREN'T Y'ALL SEEING HIS FACE—

2) he fell, that's all, right, adam? darling? he fell from the stairs—

3) you have no right to be here on my house—

4) adam? are you okay, son? is this your name? adam? what happened here—?

(thoughts:

1) this isn't happening

2) GO AWAY

3) ronan is so going to jail

4) shit

5) now he's going to lose his seat at the school

6) gansey is going to lost it

7) this is all my fault. as always

8) fuck this? it is RONAN'S fault i told him to fucking leave

9) i will never hear for this ear ever again)

You almost don't hear yourself (key word: _almost_ ) when you say "I want to press charges", not only because you're in shock but because the sound of your life ruining is too loud to take.

(and because your mother's eyes _— i will never forgive you_ — made you deaf to this sentence forever).

(nothing is ever going to be the same, it's certain;

and it is also amazing, everything is ruined,

but the emotion you're feeling is _relief_ )

—

The light in front of the hospital is aggressive and bright, almost as if trying to kick you out of the only dark corner where you can hide. Your hands are colder than death, still while you hold the prescription of your new meds. The fact that you don't have anywhere to go is only now kicking in, and you're very busy panicking. The familiar BMW stops in front of you, and you look at it more of instinct and less of want. Ronan Lynch, fresh from the hospital, as the exhibit A: neon-purple bruises coloring his face and exhibit B: angry eyes can easily prove.

"They let you drive already?"

"I'm not the one who got hurt so badly he had to stay in observation."

"They thought I could have a concussion", is all he says back.

"You want a ride?"

"To when?"

"Home, where else?"

"I don't know if you fell asleep while I was pressing charges, Ronan", you say, very slowly, as if with a child who isn't very bright. "but it means that I can't go home anymore. You know, because there is where lives my _father_?"

"Who said it was that hellhole that I meant when I said home", he says, and you sigh, because really, "You can take the bed tonight." He opens the door and then look at you. "Well, you coming?"

(you go)

—

Ronan is true to his world about you taking the bed that night. And the next. And the next. And also the next. Actually, you take the bed every single time till you move on to the church's attic because every night, when you got home after work, Ronan would already be soundly asleep (dreaming, dreaming, dreaming) on the floor.

He refuses to recognize the pattern when you confront him about this on the third night.

—

You two are lying on the rocks and leaves and probably small animals that make Cabeswater's ground — which is as uncomfortable as it sounds (sticks are NOT pillows) —, in the autumn section, at Ronan's request ("we will be way too overdressed if we go on" "we can always take off some clothes" "[long, heavy pause"), and you wish that you were in your bed.

Ronan likes Cabeswater, though,

and you kind of, maybe, like Ronan,

(—a lot—),

and well. Anyway.

"Are you really going to Princeton?", he asks you, casually. Too casually.

"I don't know", that's what you said, because it's the truth. You don't like keeping secrets from Ronan. He always founds out. "I don't even know what I'm having for lunch tomorrow."

"What is going to happen when we found Glendower?"

"Ronan", you say, slowly. "I don't think you're listening to me."

"Fuck, Adam. You always have a lot of plans. You call them letters."

"Not this time."

(silence).

"Can we go home now? I think my butt is kind of frozen."

"Hell _yeah_."

—

You tell him about your father's trial. You don't know why, even if you have some guesses; if you were questioned and they kicked you and punched you and hit you and demanded an answer about this specific question, you would probably say that is because Ronan deserved to know. Had earned it. Because he threw himself in the middle of the hell and made himself part of the mess, because he did hit your father with a punch that probably left bruise, because your mother isn't in speaking terms with you anymore so you don't have anyone to tell. It's all bullshit, kind of, but it is what you would say if you were asked.

Fortunately, no one is questioning you — because nobody knows, especially Gansey —, so you don't have to say anything. Truth or not.

You tell Ronan about your father's trial because, deep in you, all you wanted is to someone say to you that you did the right thing.

And you wouldn't ever regret it, ever, because when he said "finally the fucker is going to jail", so serious and so fierce, all you can think is thank you thank you thank you thank you—

(i think i will never love anyone the way i love you)

—

I had to unlearn their prison speak

Refuse to make wishes on the star on the sheriff's chest

I started making wishes on the stars in the sky instead

— andrea gibson.

 


End file.
